So Fathers Be Good to Your Daughters
by mon-petit-pois
Summary: Set after 7x04 Good Cop Bad Cop. "He said that you remind him of Eli,"


His basement steps creak much louder at night, she decides. The _whoosh, whoosh_ of sandpaper against wood is joined by the groans of protest from the old staircase that she _tries_ to descend quietly. Her attempts are pointless, however, and she might as well have arrived with a blazing fanfare. She knows he is aware of her presence, but he does not acknowledge it. He goes on sanding his wood, even as she crosses right behind him and pours herself a mason jar full of bourbon.

She sits on the workbench a few feet back and to his left, sipping the alcohol pensively. She does not usually drink on her visits here—she does not have much of a taste for whiskey—but tonight she is grateful for something so strong.

Alcohol has a tendency to her melancholy, however, and she always seems to remember this _after_ she drinks his bourbon. This room, this basement which over the years has become a sort of safe place, takes on a different meaning. Unwelcome memories surface, and she remembers why she does not usually drink here. A few feet to her left is where she shot her brother dead. Where she is sitting now was where she sat as she looked over his dead body, singing softly, mourning, eventually crying. Over there is where she cried as she begged Gibbs to save her from her father and Mossad and NCIS and the FBI. Two feet in front of her is where she stood not too many weeks ago as Gibbs accused her of killing her own brother in cold blood.

It's ironic, really, that she regards Gibbs' basement as a safe place. However, this is where he is, and she needs him.

After what seems to her like hours, he breaks his silence.

"Something on your mind, Ziver?" He does not look back at her, does not halt his sanding, and does not falter. He speaks casually, as if the question he is asking does _not_ open the door to all sorts of heavy conversations. She does not respond right away, rather, she takes a minute to collect her thoughts and figure out how best to discuss this with him.

"Do you remember that night? The night that I… gained your trust?" She thinks it best to approach the subject delicately. His accusations from a few weeks before still sting.

"Already talked about this with you," he grunts. She looks down from the back of his head and into her lap, running her pointer finger around the edge of the mason jar absentmindedly.

"That is not what this is about," she assures him. He sighs, finally turning towards her. He leans back against the worktable.

"I'm listening." His voice is sincere. A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, but there it is a melancholy smile.

"I remember that night like yesterday. Every word Ari said, every accusation he made, every admission of guilt… I remember them." She alternates her gaze between him and the glass in her hands. Only Gibbs can make her nervous like this. "He said something then, something that I still don't understand."

"Which is?" he prompts. She looks up at him, meeting his steely blue eyes courageously.

"He said that you remind him of Eli." She sees a flash of _something_ cross Gibbs' mind, but she cannot decipher it.

"Why're ya bringing this up now?" he inquires. It's obvious that he knows the answer, but he makes her say it anyway. She is somewhat grateful for this. Sometimes, words are needed.

"Because, after today especially… I need you to know that I do not see it that way. You are nothing like him." Flashes of days spent searching for her father play out before her eyes, whether it was looking for him in the audience at a dance recital or on the distant desert horizon as she stared out a small window in a filthy little cell. She swallows hard and continues. "You are there for me, and not just when it is self-serving. I do not have to spend my days fighting for your approval, or for your…" She trails off, unable to decide if she really _wants_ to finish that sentence. Her eyes once again fall to her lap, studying the way the light bounces off the faceted glass jar.

"Love," he finishes for her, and her head snaps up, surprised.

"I never took you for the gushy type," she muses, laughing without one bit of humor.

"'M not. Just helping you make your point."

She sighs. "The _point_, Gibbs, is that I am… thankful. You are nothing like Eli. He… he threw me to the wolves. And, somehow, when I make it out of that alive… does he call? No. I sent him an email, resigning from Mossad…" she barks out a sad laugh, "…and he responded by sending Malachi to accuse me of murder, so I would have no choice but to return to him so he could send me off on another mission for his purposes! I… I was _tortured, _Gibbs. I spent almost four months being beaten, starved, electrocuted, assaulted! And he did not care. He _does_ not care. Am I worth so little? Am I really so… discardable? Disposable? _Worthless?_" At this point, she is near tears. The anger does not come. Instead, in its place, is only soul-wrenching sadness.

Gibbs puts up a good front, he always has, but there is no stopping the bits of anger and sympathy that seep through his mask. She quickly averts her eyes.

"Ziva, look at me," he demands. She does not comply, will not comply, because she is crying now and crying is weakness. "_Ziva._" His voice is firm and Ziva knows there is no arguing with him. Her eyes, tears and all, meet his. "He does not _deserve_ to be called your father. You are worth so much more than even you know. Ya gotta believe that." There is a bit of desperation in his voice that she does not remember ever hearing before.

"But he _is_ my father. It does not matter what he does, he will always be my father," she insists.

"No, he pretty much gave up that slot when he left you to Saleem."

This only serves to hurt her. "And that leaves me, what, fatherless? That is no better." The second the words are out of her mouth, Ziva sees the flaw. Gibbs does, too, and she wonders if that might be _hurt_ flashing across his eyes.

"Weren't you the one who said this, anyhow? You said that Eli is dead to you. You said I'm the closest thing you have to a real father. You taking that back now, David?"

She shakes her head vehemently. "No. I meant what I said. I simply… need time. I need to grieve. No matter what he did, he is still my father, at least by blood, and his betrayal… I will not pretend that it does not sting."

Gibbs nods. "Makes sense." With that, he turns back to his wood.

"Gibbs?"

"Mmhmm?" he responds, not turning to face her. She stands from the bench and comes up beside him, not continuing until he looks up at her. She fights hard against the instinct to pull her walls back up; she wants him to see her sincerity.

"_Thank you. _For… everything. For being there when Eli was not. For taking me in, under your wing... for showing me that there is more to life than Mossad; for showing me that I have more to offer than just being the sharp end of the spear." A moment's hesitation, then, "For showing me that I can be… that I can be _loved,_ that I am worth it." Her voice cracks on the last word and she looks away, not trusting herself to keep any sort of composure with him looking at her like that. He actually looks… _touched._

"You're family, Ziver. This's your home. You don't need to thank me," he reminds her, patting her hand gently. She shakes her head.

"But_ Eli_ was my family. _Mossad_ was my home. And yet… both betrayed me. You have not, and I am grateful," she explains, eager for him to understand how much his support means. With a small, crooked smile, he leans over and places a kiss on her temple. This is the second time he has done that today, she realizes as she recalls the events of her interrogation today. She broke down in tears after he left, and she is determined to keep her composure now.

He silently offers her a piece of sandpaper, and she accepts it gracefully. It is not hard for her to understand why Gibbs finds woodworking so therapeutic. There's something about building something from nothing, smoothing out the edges, polishing and perfecting something that used to be nothing but scraps of wood. She wonders if rebuilding her life from the rubble it is now will bring her as much peace of mind.

"You are making a bookshelf?" she asks, studying his project closely for the first time.

"Yep."

"I did not think you read many books."

He shrugs. "I don't. It's a gift." She cocks her head to the side, pondering this as she sands up, down, up, down.

"I guess I have missed a lot since I have been gone. Another mysterious redhead?" she speculates as she studies the wood grain intently.

"Nope. No girlfriend. It's for my kid."

Her eyes widen and her head swivels to the right, looking up at him, her eyes searching for confirmation. The small smile he offers her is enough.

"…_Gibbs…_" She is speechless. She sees him as a father, and she has told him that, but he has never came out and reciprocated. He has never explicitly said that her feelings about their father and daughter bond are requited.

"I figured you could use something of your own," he explains. She is deeply touched. Her apartment came fully furnished, but it was something like staying at a hotel. She owns nothing, _nothing. _The fact that Gibbs can see that and is willing to do something about it… There are no words.

So she does not say anything. Her eyes convey enough, she knows, and Gibbs seems to prefer nonverbal communication, anyhow. After a minute, he turns back to the bookshelf, and continues sanding.

Four weeks ago, she slept on a dirty, bloody, filthy floor, waiting and _wishing_ for death. Four weeks ago, she was alone. Four weeks ago, her life was over and there was no one coming to save her.

But now she is alive, because they care. She is happy, loved. For once, she has a _future, _one without Eli, one that she can orchestrate _herself,_ and one that she can spend surrounded by people who actually give a damn.

Ari had it all wrong. Gibbs was not Eli. Gibbs is more of a father than Eli can ever hope to be.


End file.
